Language - It's meaning has POWER

I've been thinking a lot lately about language.  We are inundated by it daily.  TV, Radio, our friends, our family, our co-workers... even magazines, the internet, Facebook, Pinterest and Twitter play into my thoughts.  And as parents, we are the first examples of language for our children.  You know, that group of shorties that represent our future world leaders?

My children are 10, 8 and 7 months.  The oldest one is starting to experiment with language as a pre-teen (and mostly failing to grasp the influence she has over her brothers by using it), my middle child is learning about language in his speech classes to fix a slight lisp, and my youngest is just simply LEARNING about language because he can't talk yet.

Our language, the words we use, the body language we convey it with, even the cell phone texts/tweets/facebook messages we send... have POWER.

The other day my middle was acting a little nutty (as he sometimes does do to his ADHD and being a BOY).  I caught myself as I started to say "Settle down, you are acting like a ..." wait, did I really almost call my son a 'TARD?!?!  Where the heck did that COME from??  I am hugely against using negative words in everyday slang... like "TARD", "That's GAY", "Don't be a Baby!"... to me these are taking very special people in our world and saying they are "bad" because we use their titles in negative language.  And here I was, about to say something that I was 100% fundamentally against. 

Again.  I asked myself, WHERE did this come FROM?  How did it so easily jump into my head and almost out of my lips?!  

All I can think is that we are inundated with language from the time we get up until the time we go to bed.  I read hundreds (maybe thousands) of status updates on Facebook and Twitter each day.  I read magazines, watch the news and a select few TV shows and listen to radio nearly all day.  Words are constantly entering my head and ears in almost unconscious ways.  I know I've heard teens call each other 'Tards and exclaim "that's so gay!" at least daily via social media and other communication vehicles.  It's possible that these phrases don't even register in my brain anymore, they are like hearing "I had a crappy day today", "That was so cool, it was the SHIT", "Damn I am hungry!" ... or like my 10 year old gets chastised for saying almost daily: "That's friggin stupid!" 

But I want to put a stop to our numbing response to negative language.  I don't want my kids to think it's okay to use slang to hurt others, even in unconcious ways.

And I want to remove these and other words from my vocabulary as well.  It goes further than just cursing (which I need to work on as well).  I want to go back to the mantra, "If you don't have anything nice to say, don't say anything at all".  Is it really necessary to scream at the driver that just cut you off in traffic?  He can't hear you.  And you don't know what his day was like.  Maybe he's rushing from work to spend time with his wife that is in the hospital.  Or maybe his kid just got hurt at baseball practice and he needs to get there quickly.  Granted, maybe he is just a jerk that thinks his time is more valuable than yours, but regardless, screaming a malicious name or statement at him doesn't do anyting to fix him, and instead might be influencing your kids in negative ways when they hear you.  Next time your son pushes your daughter to get to the sink first to wash hands, is it okay for her to say "Hey stupid!  Watch where you are going!" ??  No, you don't want her to say that, so really we should say it either.  Right?

 

Here is my challenge.  Start listening to your words.  Pause before you speak, before you type the next status update or tweet.  Is the words you are conveying positive in nature?  Do they have unnecessary adverbs?  Isn't it just as easy and effective to say "Today wasn't my favorite, hoping tomorrow is better" as it is to say "Today was a piece of crap and I friggin' hope tomorrow doesn't suck too"?   

Furthermore,  I challenge parents take a more active role in what your kids are watching, listening to and saying themselves.  It's no fun being the UNCOOL parent, but it's our job to filter and sensor our children until they are old enough to make judgements about the world through a foundation of values and morals that WE as PARENTS instill in them.  My hope is when they aren't with you, and they are tempted to watch and say things you don't approve of, they will use that foundation to make good decisions about language. 

I am working on it day-by-day and word-by-word.  I am doing it because our children are listening, watching and mimicking who we are, how we act and what we do.  Do we want our future to be influenced by a bunch of kids that learned what the world was about via Spongebob Squarepants, Family Guy and Futurama? 

In this world of anti-bullying campaigns, gun-control law debates and mental illness at an all time high, maybe the answer is simple.  Language, my friends, has POWER.  Power to tear down and power to build up.  Power to teach and power to alienate.  Power to share love and power to spur on hate.  Let's put LOVE back in our language.  

Let's teach our children to use language to communicate that love to everyone they meet.  The new kid in school.  The grouchy teacher that yells in class.  The younger sibling that annoys them daily.  The kid that seems different and uncool.  The adult that seems angry and sad.  The grandparent that everyone forgets to visit.  

By teaching our kids these important lessons, we might even learn something ourselves.  We might even like who we become as a result.  At the very least, people around us will be happier, and so will we. 

Six years of Embracing Life

My dearest Monkey,

About this time six years ago, (I was finally getting a good dose of an epidural) after laboring most of the night, I was about to meet my little boy and was giddy with excitement. When you entered this world, it was to a mommy that was giggling and laughing with glee. They laid you on my chest and I've been completely and utterly in love ever since.

You had a rough few months there in the beginning... diagnosed with a kidney issue called hydronephrosis in the womb. And then diagnosed with reflux a few weeks after being born. Amazingly we found out what a tough little guy you were! You were sweet and loving and full of smiles all the time. Granted, those smiles sometimes meant you were about to upchuck on whoever was holding you, but we all rolled with it and loved you none-the-less. (I just did a LOT of laundry back then... some things don't change however).

Over the years, your climbing and crazy wild ways earned you the nickname Monkey... and it has stuck. You don't even seem to mind it. I love that you go with the flow like that and just want to see everyone around you happy. Your sister is your hero, and you follow her around like she was born just to show you what life is all about (and she acts as if she was born to boss you around... sorry buddy). But your love for her is so pure and awesome, it's a treat to watch it blossom and grow as you get older.

This has been a big year for you. Your transition from five years old to six has brought a lot of new adventures. Riding a bike, reading, swimming (even diving and doing flips off the diving board) and a new ability to have self-control, even when you haven't had your ADHD meds on days we forget to take it. You make your mama so proud.

I was a little worried when the doctor said I was going to have a boy. I mean, I am the oldest of three girls. We don't have any boys in our family. What was I suppose to do with a BOY? The thought definitely intimidated me. Now you are turning six and I can't imagine my life without you. Someone said that there is nothing like a boy's love for his mama. Well I am living breathing proof it's true. No one has ever loved me the way that you and your sister do, and makes my life worth living everyday.

Right now you are embracing life and all the wonderful things it has to offer. You are excited about starting some sports soon and starting first grade in the fall. My favorite is watching the concentration on your face as you are building something or working on a craft. You are so intense and focused and then suddenly you are DONE and your face lights up as you look for me to share whatever it is you have created. My heart rejoices at that pure happiness on your face with you receive praise and accolade.

Nate, you have such a sweet and accepting spirit. You love your family and friends and go out of your way to make them smile and laugh. Don't ever lose that. But also remember that your happiness is important too. Continue to be my adventurous monkey. I will always be here ready with a smile and encouragement.

I love you my little man. My monkey. My Nate.
Happy Birthday!

Love you bunches,
Mommy

Learning. Loving. Living.

Do you ever miss being a kid? I'll admit that I really don't think about it much. My childhood was fun and full of drama at the same time. Interspersed with the happy moments of playing with my friends until dark and drawing hopscotch on the sidewalk, is the memories of my mom sitting in a corner of a dark room crying and having potato soup every night for a week because there wasn't enough to eat in our house.

Childhood was somewhat bittersweet for me. I grew up not knowing my real dad. I fell madly in love with my mom's first husband, who eventually cheated on her, got mixed up in drugs, and died a homeless vet roaming the city streets - hardly father of the year. And then I spent my pre-pubescent years scowling at my mom's second husband and picking fights with him throughout high school. I took all my resentment out on him, and although sometimes he deserved it, most of the time he didn't.

But I also remember holding all-day dance contests in my cousin's front yard, complete with a sheet of cardboard to "break-dance" on to the tunes coming out of our "boombox". Fun times. And sitting on the back patio in the scorching sun eating a popsicle, feeling it drip down my arms and onto my bare legs and then jumping in the pool to rinse it all off. While inside the house my family was falling apart.

For a kid with a childhood like that... the good memories were a lifeboat to happiness.

The resilience of children has never been more clear to me than when I became a mom. Wiping tears from faces that just got skinned from falling off a bike, kissing a papercut that has already begun to heal but needs a batman bandaid, well just because it feels better, and playing barbies with my daughter because she had a fight with her best friend --- these are the moments when my heart breaks because more than anything I want to protect my children from any pain. But then five minutes later they are up and running and laughing again... whatever hurt received quickly forgotten. And that makes me smile.

I realized tonight that I am doing a good job of protecting them and encouraging happiness, because despite being involved in a nasty custody dispute with their father, my children are oblivious to it. I fill their days with activity and stories and love and kisses and hugs - tucking them warmly into bed at night, so that they don't doubt for one second that they are loved and cared for. They don't have to worry about whether mommy is sad again or whether there will be something new on the dinner table tomorrow night. They have the security to know that their every need will be met.

Does their mom sit in a corner and cry? I'll admit that sometimes I do, but it's when they aren't around to see or worry about it. Have I worried about where I'll find food to put on the table? Since becoming a single mom, yes I have been there a time or two as well. But it's not something they ever see or realize. I protect them so that they can do what kids are suppose to do... play and learn and experience the wonders of our world.

And somehow, through them, I am getting to experience my childhood over again - well at least the good parts. That's my reward for being their mom.

Weeeee!

Is there anything more free than this?

Jenna doing what she does best

Like a Virgin

I was eight years old when I learned about the "birds and bees."

It was a sunny afternoon, I had just dropped my backpack down at the front door and went straight to the kitchen for a snack. My mom was in there getting some stuff ready for dinner, I could hear my little sister in the back room playing with her dolls.

"Mom, what's a 'virgin'?"

She looked up from the stove at me with wide-eyes and then slowly narrowed them, spatula in the air. Her shoulders slumped and she said, "Give me just a minute here and we'll talk about that. Where did you hear that word?"

"I was at Bible Class today and they kept talking about 'The Virgin Mary'. Why did they call her a 'virgin'? ... Oh and I heard it on a T.V. show the other day too, but that time they were talking about a guy at their school."

She quietly finished making dinner, set it to the side to stay warm and told me to come sit on the couch in the living room. She brought a pencil and a pad of paper with her. Man, she meant business. This was not going to be any explanation.

Curiously I looked at her as I sat down, feeling a bit apprehensive at her seriousness.

A few diagrams later she had thoroughly explained the female reproductive system, the male reproductive system and how they delicately worked together to make a baby. Following that was a stern lecture about how this process was meant by God to be an act between a husband and wife that loved each other.

And then she began to cry.

Tell an eight-year-old little girl that a penis goes in a vagina to make a baby and THEN start crying... and you have pretty much engraved the moment into her mind forever. And possibly scared the living day lights out of her.

The reason for the tears was soon explained. My mother put her hand on my shoulder as tears streamed down her face and said that sometimes people who weren't married fell in love and made babies. That it was NEVER a mistake, it just wasn't the way God intended it and made it much harder for everyone involved.

A light bulb began to go off in my head. I realized that most kids probably don't remember their parent's wedding day like I did. I remember it because I was 3 years old on that day. And the man I now called "Daddy" didn't actually meet me until I was old enough to know I was the only kid in nursery school that didn't have a daddy.
I looked at my mom and I started to cry too. "Who is my daddy?"

She hugged me and told me that someday when I was old enough to know, she would tell me more, and if I wanted to meet him, that she would be okay with it. For now, my Daddy was the man that came to every school program, that took us to the zoo, and who was the only person I wanted when I fell off my bike and skinned my knee. She said that making a baby didn't make you a daddy... loving a child like they were your own did.

Finally I sighed and wiped my tears, looked back down at the drawing my mother had made me. An hour or so had passed since I had gotten home from school. From the drawings I looked back at my mothers face, eyes rimmed red with tears, but with a soft smile on her face.

"But, I still don't know what 'virgin' means."

At that, my mother started laughing and so did I.

The Heart of Home

Growing up, my favorite room of any home was the kitchen. It was big and bright and shiny. Just made you want to step in the picture, sit down at the counter over a cup of coffee and 'shoot the shit' as my mom use to say.

My love for the kitchen started when I was a child. That is the first place we headed after school every day. Me and my sister would grab a snack and sit at the counter, kicking our shoes to the floor, laughing and giggling over girlish secrets. Mom would be at the sink doing dishes, or pealing potatoes, or drinking some coffee. She'd ask us questions and make us feel important with her genuine interest in our day.

And I wasn't the only one that loved my mother's kitchen. Inevitibly at a party, family gathering or social event in our home, everyone would end up in the kitchen... snacking, drinking, laughing and sharing. That room was always warm and inviting and full of the smells of food and coffee and sweetness.

Some of my favorite stories my mother ever shared with us was while she cooked dinner and we sat at the counter listening to her and asking questions. I remember my one main chore was to unload the dishwasher everyday... I did the dishes and my sister did the silverware (she was 5 years younger than I).

That was me and my mom's time to chat. Many a confession was made in that kitchen. She found my first hickey on my neck at 15, when I was leaning in the sink washing my hair. Oops. Ha. And that's usually where the report card was presented for review and usually praise, but sometimes a stern lecture.

It's where I told my mom I lost my virginity and where I smeared mayonaise on my sister one day as a joke and we had a full on fight with the whole jar (not recommended... mayo smells really gross when it makes contact with skin). It's where I read my acceptance letter to college, introduced my parents to my future husband and also where he asked them for their blessing to marry me. I learned to cook under the watchful gaze of my mother. It's where I told my mom she was going to be a grandmother. And where I hugged my mom and sisters right after we found out their father (the man who raised me) died.

Candles have been blown out, tears have been shed and wiped, songs have been sang, kisses and hugs have been shared and secrets have been told... all sitting in the kitchen.

It's no wonder it's my favorite room of the house.